


Another Roadside Attraction - Part One

by withoutaplease



Series: Another Roadside Attraction [1]
Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 08:25:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5620099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withoutaplease/pseuds/withoutaplease
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s the early spring of 2006, and reader is a student at the local community college.  When she stops to buy coffee one morning, she meets a mysterious new hire at the coffee shop, and the sparks are instantaneous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Roadside Attraction - Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note: I’m planning for this to be a three-parter, and I hope you’ll be as taken with it as I am. Title borrowed from Tom Robbins – if you haven’t read him, please do.

               Later, in hindsight, you admit that maybe it wasn’t a mistake after all.

               Today, however, as you’re literally sprinting down the sidewalk to make it to campus in time for your elective 8:00am Early European History class, one sleeve of your jacket on your arm and the other flapping in the wind,  you are cursing yourself for thinking that any early morning obligations were remotely a good idea.  When you’d registered for classes at a community college half a state away from where you grew up, it hadn’t even occurred to you that you might develop a night life.  Your daydreams didn’t reach that far. To you, the appeal of living on your own - decorating your own space, playing your own music, not sharing a bathroom with three siblings - these things were fantasy-worthy material all on their own.  You didn’t really think about the people you’d meet when you got there, or all the partying that would be going on around you. At least, that was true until you turned 21.

               Now you’re jogging with a hangover in boots and jeans, and you silently vow never to take a class before 10:00am for the remainder of your college career (because vowing off pub nights is, of course, out of the question).  Just when the Humanities building comes into view and you’re in the home stretch, you look down at the books you’re carrying in one hand and the luggage that passes for a purse you’ve got slung over the other and realize you’ve left your travel mug sitting on your kitchen counter.  You stop in your tracks and pause for a few seconds to catch your breath, and then you turn around and start walking at a comfortable pace toward the nearest coffee shop, Early European History abandoned for the day.   With some lecturers, it’s better never than late, and you are not about to even attempt to stay awake without coffee.

               By the time you reach the shop, your heart rate has returned to normal, and last night’s 3:00am after-party is catching up with you.  When you step inside, at the crest of a yawn, you don’t notice the new barista until he practically trips over you.  He catches himself mid-trip, only to bump his head on a low-hanging sign.  “Sorry,” you say with a cringe, and the guy doesn’t even pause, doesn’t even look back at you, just plows right through with an irritated huff.  “Or not . . .” you mutter, under your breath, and then you wait in line, a little indignant, until you’re up at the register, and he’s towering behind it, and you get a good look at his face. 

               “Sorry about the wait, what can I get you?” he asks, eyes on the register, sounding reasonably friendly, if exhausted.  After a moment, he turns his head to look at you, and you realize you haven’t spoken in a few too many seconds.  You’ve been staring.  He makes eye contact and smiles, and all at once you realize that you’ve never seen eyes with a colour defying description like that, never seen a smile that gives off its own light like that, and you notice, almost objectively, that you’re smiling, too.

               “Hi,” you say, stupidly, almost at a whisper.

               “Hi,” he answers, at a perfectly normal volume, then raises his eyebrows. “What can I get you?” he repeats.

               “Sorry,” you mutter, tearing your eyes away and shaking your head, flustered.  “Large non-fat latte, please.”

               “You got it,” he says, and he turns around to make your drink while you try to pretend like you’re not watching intently.  He’s clearly a new hire at the shop; his obvious lack of familiarity with the equipment ( _he definitely burned his finger and mouthed “motherfucker” just now_ ) would be a dead giveaway even if he was at all forgettable-looking, which he most certainly is not. You briefly wonder where he came from, if he is a student at the college, and if so, why you've never seen him around before.

               He snaps a lid onto the to-go cup and passes your drink over the counter.  “Large non-fat latte,” he says with a grin, and the tip of his finger brushes up against yours while he’s handing you the paper cup, and you’re so engrossed in contemplating whether the charge you just felt was real or imaginary that you almost don’t hear it when he adds, “that’ll be $3.50.”

               You sigh in irritation, mostly at yourself, and hand him a $5.  “Keep the change,” you say, looking down at his apron, reading from the little plastic label-maker nametag pinned just at your eye-level, “Sam.” 

               “Thanks,” he says, flashing you one more grin _(dear lord, those dimples)_ , “have a good one.” You could swear you catch him giving you the once-over, then his full attention switches to the next person in line.  You turn and walk back out of the shop, dazed and grinning ear-to-ear.

               You somehow manage to forget your morning coffee every day for the next two weeks.

* * * * *

               It’s a Friday night, and the crowd at the college pub is just beginning to switch over from daytime studiers to night-time revellers.  You’ve been here since your last class of the day ended at 4:00pm, spending the first hour legitimately studying, and the following three hours putting away round after round with your Business program buddies, making dinner out of wings and French fries and singing along with the Top-40 radio blaring over the pub’s speakers. The place has really started to fill up when you rise to fetch the next round, legs only wobbling the tiniest bit, and your two girlfriends hold down the fort at your table while someone behind a curtain turns up the music and dims the lights.

               When you reach the bar, you see the bartender filling a long line-up of shot glasses with something that seems sickly-sweet and finicky, and you figure she’s going to be a while, so you take a seat at one of the barstools.  You’re lost in thought when he walks up to the bar right next to you, only snapping out of it when he looks down at you and smiles that same megawatt smile you’ve come to rely on as your morning jolt for the last couple weeks.  The khaki field jacket he’s sporting is a vast improvement over the apron you’re used to seeing. “Sam!” you shout, booze-bold and grinning.

               “Large non-fat latte!” he replies, with a laugh.  “It’s nice to see you after sundown for a change. Are you having a good night?”  He looks over at the bartender, who is dealing with a sizeable crowd that has formed at the other end of the bar, and makes the same decision you did.  He takes a seat on the barstool next to yours. 

               “(Y/N),” you say, raising your voice to make up for the din that’s forming around you, and holding your hand out in introduction.  He shakes your hand, and his grip is gentle but so strong underneath, and he holds it just long enough that you start to feel a little giddy.

               “(Y/N),” he repeats to himself, letting go of your hand. “That’s nice, it suits you.”  You glance downward, demurely, but you can’t seem to wipe the smile off your face.  “How was the latte this morning?”

               “Better,” you say, turning a little in your stool toward him.  “You’re getting much better with your foam proportions,” you say, teasing.

               “To tell you the truth,” he says, leaning in a little closer to you so that he doesn’t have to shout, “I didn’t realize so many people still drank that stuff.”

               “Coffee?” you ask, laughing.  “I’m pretty sure people still drink coffee, Sam.  Otherwise you’d be out of a job.”

               “I’m not talking about _coffee_ ,” he says, becoming animated.  “I’m talking about cappuccinos, and macchiatos,” he pauses, smirks. “Non-fat lattes.  What ever happened to plain black coffee?”

               You make a face.  “Uh, I don’t drink black coffee because it’s disgusting and I love myself,” you say, and he laughs.  Just then the bartender approaches the two of you. 

               “What are you having?” Sam asks you, and you take a look over your shoulder at the table where you left your girlfriends awaiting their round.  You see they’ve been joined by a pair of jocks wielding fistfuls of pitchers, and they appear to be perfectly satisfied with that development. “Not black coffee,” he tells the bartender solemnly.

               You chuckle.  “I’ll have a pint of Coors Light,” you say.

               “Really?” Sam asks, playacting a face that looks both disappointed and mildly disgusted.  When you shrug back at him, he tells the bartender with a melodramatic sigh, “Two pints of Coors Light, please.”

               “Why’d you order it if you don’t like it?” you ask with a chuckle as the bartender fills two pint glasses from the tap.

               “When in Rome . . .” he says, shaking his head and pulling a $10 bill out of his jeans pocket. He hands it to the bartender when she sets down your glasses.

               “Thank you,” you say, clinking your glass against Sam’s and taking a long, cool drink. 

               “You’re welcome,” he says, taking a drink of his own.  “You never answered me, how’s your night going? Besides the fact that you don’t seem to love yourself enough to drink decent beer.”

               You roll your eyes and laugh. “Good,” you answer. “Going good.  Happy it’s Friday.  I had a lot of papers due this week.”

               “Hence the caffeine habit,” he says, nodding. “I gotcha.”

               “Do you have classes here?” you ask, taking another long pull from your pint glass, and he sighs, turns away a little.

               “No, I’m pretty much just working at the coffee shop,” he says, more to his glass than to you. “I just felt like getting out tonight.”

               “Are you from town, or  . . . ?”

               “No, um, I was living in California,” he says, raising one hand to scratch absently at the curls at the nape of his neck, “and I’ve been travelling, and I was passing through town a week before you first came into the shop.” He chuckles nervously. “I kinda got stranded,” he concludes.  You don’t say anything right away, and he looks over at you, smile slightly wavering.  “That sounds weird, doesn’t it?” he says. “You think I’m a freak or a drifter or something.”

               “No,” you say, laying a momentary hand on one of the forearms he has resting on the bar top, feeling hard muscle under the fabric of his jacket. “Sorry, no, not at all.  That’s just not the answer I was expecting.”

               He sighs.  “I used to go to school,” he says, “but I had to take some time off.  Personal stuff.”  He chews the inside of his cheek, takes another sip of his beer, runs a hand through dark, wavy hair that hangs just on this side of falling into his eyes.  “Anyway, I was on a road trip with my brother, and we were on our way to go and have a visit with our dad.” He pauses again, his eyes seeming to search the top-shelf bottles displayed high on the wall behind the bar.  “I guess Dean – that’s my brother – I guess he got into some trouble with the cops or something,” he continues carefully, “because I got a message that he had to leave town at a moment’s notice, and I should wait here.  That was three weeks ago.”  He shrugs, and looks to you again, waiting for a reaction.

               “So you’re not here to stay?” you ask, and he shakes his head.

               “I hope not,” he says, dimpled grin making a comeback at one corner of his mouth.  “I don’t make a very good latte.”  Just then, the bartender comes back and asks if you’d like another round.  You nod at Sam when he looks to you questioningly, and he orders two more pints.  When the bartender sets them down, Sam pays her and then turns on his stool so that he’s facing you, one of his knees coming to rest against your leg.  Neither of you moves to correct it, and for a moment, you just gaze at each other and smile, and the tone of your conversation shifts almost imperceptibly while the Friday-night binge-fest picks up steam around you.

               When he speaks again, it’s to change the subject.  “What are you taking in school?” he asks.

               “Business,” you answer unenthusiastically.  “My parents kind of insisted, they said I needed to take something practical so I don’t end up a starving artist.”

               Sam’s face lights up a little.  “You’re an artist?” he asks, eyes shining.

               “Hardly,” you say.  “I write poems and stuff sometimes.  Mostly, I just read.  I’m taking some English and History electives, just so that my brain doesn’t go completely numb while I’m trying to care about finance and accounting.”

               “That’s cool,” he says, nodding, “I always liked history.”  You fall into another brief silence. He takes another drink, and so do you, though you silently swear it’s your last of the night as you find yourself staring at Sam’s mouth, and thinking about the spot on your leg where his knee is still pressed, and feeling your inhibitions abandon you like so much dirty dishwater down the drain.  When he puts down his glass again, he chews on his bottom lip for a moment before looking up at you with eyes that have somehow shifted from kind and approachable to shrewd and maybe even a little bit predatory.  A syrupy flush of heat that pools low in your belly begins before he even opens his mouth to speak again.  “Sorry,” he says, releasing his lip from his teeth and breaking the silence. “I guess my conversation skills with women are getting rusty.”

               “You haven’t met a lot of girls on your road trip?” you ask.

               “None that are hot like you,” he says, holding your gaze, while you feel your cheeks go red and your stomach attempt a backflip.  All at once, the entire bar falls away, leaving nothing but your own thumping heartbeat and Sam’s wicked grin waiting inches from your face, to see if you’ll bite.

               “Um,” you say, and with absolutely nothing to follow it up, you look away and laugh, face burning.  Sam laughs, too, but it’s a cat-that-ate-the-canary kind of laugh, and it dies away as he lays his hand on your thigh and splays out his fingers and now you’re the one chewing your lip.

               He leans in close to you, speaking right into your ear.  “Do you have a boyfriend?” he asks. 

               You shake your head, turning it to face him again, and now his mouth is so close to yours you can almost smell the beer on his breath.  “Girlfriend?” you manage, with a voice that nearly cracks.  He shakes his head, his eyes dropping briefly to your mouth before swinging back up, and his lips curl up in one last anticipatory grin before he sets down his glass, sweeps a lock of hair away from your cheek with his fingertips, and leans in to kiss you.

               His lips are velvety and gentle on yours, but they’re deliberate, and the kiss is so good you nearly lose your balance on the barstool.  He licks his bottom lip as he pulls away from you, then grins and quirks his eyebrows, cocky.  “Do you live around here?” he asks.  You nod, your head still reeling from the kiss.  “Do you want to get out of here?”  You nod again, and he nods agreement, and he’s up off his stool in a heartbeat, grabbing your hand to help you up, not letting it go as he hurries you out the pub’s side door and into the night air, your girlfriends long forgotten, your second round of pints left half-finished on the bar.

* * * * *

               The walk from the college to your tiny basement apartment is only three blocks, but it takes twice as long as it needs to, because you and Sam can’t keep yourselves from pausing every few steps to indulge in just a few more kisses.  At one point you meet some students on the sidewalk, probably headed to the bar you just came from, and one of them yells, “Get a room!” as they pass by.

               Sam, grinning ear-to-ear, shouts, “You jealous?” back over his shoulder before burying his face in your neck and sucking on the sensitive skin there.  You laugh, and let your head fall back, feeling practically delirious. 

               You finally reach your apartment, and the two of you stumble down the concrete stairs to your door, where Sam comes up behind you and runs his hands under your shirt while you’re fumbling in your purse for your house keys.  You moan softly and arch your back when he takes one of your breasts in each hand and runs his thumbs across the cups of your bra, but you manage to get the keys in the door, and the two of you tumble inside. He kicks the door shut behind him, and you kick off your boots, and then your tongues are in each other’s mouths and you’re pulling each other’s jackets off and you’re steering him backwards toward your bedroom, once you convince him to stop pinning you against every wall along the way. 

               When you arrive at the bed, you let him fall back onto it, and he reclines with his hands laced behind his head and his feet nearly dangling off the end.  He watches while you go to switch on your bedside lamp, and then across the room to turn on your radio and crank up the volume.  “For my friends that live upstairs,” you shout, and he grins bemusedly, and you notice he’s pitched himself quite a tent in the front of his jeans.  Unhurriedly, you pull your sweater up and off over your head, revealing your bra, and he starts to get up but you smile and tell him, “Stay there,” and he swallows hard but he stays.  When you reach behind you to unhook your bra, then let it fall off with a shrug and a shake of your arms, he pulls one hand from behind his head to run it over the bulge in his jeans.

               “Take off your clothes,” you say, biting your lip and unbuttoning your jeans, and his shirt and crew neck are gone in the span of a second. As you drink in all the unexpected muscle definition, it occurs to you how much of a damn shame it is to hide it all under an apron every day.  You shimmy your jeans down off your hips and step out of them, leaving on only your panties, and when the air hits them coolly, you realize that you’ve soaked them.  He pushes his jeans down over narrow hips and kicks them off his legs, and his boxer-briefs don’t restrain him enough that you can’t see the way his stiff cock jumps as you climb up onto the foot of the bed and crawl up over him.

               He catches your face with both hands as you dip down to kiss him, his lips plush and pink and slightly parted.  He moans into your mouth when you let your hips down and let his cock rub against your pussy, the two thin layers of cotton separating you not enough to stop the friction from winding you up like a spring as his kisses become clumsier and less contained beneath you.  You grind down on him a few more times, hard, and you’re just starting to think you might be about to come when his hands fly to your hips and grab you, holding you immobile while he takes several deep breaths, cock twitching.

               Once he has himself under control, he lifts his head and kisses you again, softly this time, and deliberately slowly, as his fingertips skate along your skin, sweeping down your sides, hooking under the elastic of your panties, slipping them down.  You shift down his body to return the favour, unable to resist the temptation to leave a few wet, open kisses on his belly and in the valley of his hips.  Then you curl your fingertips under the waistband of his boxer-briefs and release him, his cock standing at immediate, appreciative attention.  You slide his briefs down the mile-length of his legs, and on the climb back up, you run the flat of your tongue from the base of his cock all the way to the tip, and he moans obscenely.  You take the head in your mouth and slowly swirl your tongue around it, and he moans again, and weaves his fingers into the back of your hair.  When you open your throat and take him in as deep as you can without gagging, it’s only a few seconds before he’s gasping and his fist closes in your hair and he’s whispering to you to stop, wait, he doesn’t want to come yet.

                He’s up and retrieving a condom from his jeans pocket the moment you crawl off him, and now you’re the one lying back on the bed, watching while he bites his lip and tears open the packet and rolls the rubber down along the length of his dick.  Then he’s grinning at you and crawling back up the bed, coming to a rest on his knees between your thighs.  He leans down over you, one hand planted on the mattress to hold him up and the other slipping fingers between pussy lips that by now are swollen and throbbing, finding you more than ready.  He stops to kiss you again, soft and deep and frenzied, and then his cock head is at your opening and it’s your thrust of the hips that buries him.  He moans loud, and you gasp, and he keeps still for a long second, but when he pulls partway out so that he can thrust himself in again, you rise up to meet him, and he hits all the right buttons.  Then he’s setting a quick, athletic pace, and you’re a panting, moaning mess beneath him in no time. 

               “Tell me when you’re gonna come,” he rasps in your ear, and he sounds wrecked, and it’s almost enough to get you there right then.  You dig your fingertips into his shoulders and lift your hips off the bed and rock yourself against him, and then he sinks his teeth into your shoulder, and there you are.

               “Now,” you breathe.

               “I’ll be right there,” he whispers against your neck, but you barely hear it, you’re drowning it out moaning, because you’re already there, it’s breaking, and it’s so good there are stars before your eyes and you contract ten, twelve times before it starts to slow down.  Sam is seconds behind you, wrapping his arms around you in an iron grip while the rest of him shakes like a leaf, moaning raggedly, until his hips stop twitching and he lets himself drop, lying on top of you, absently brushing kisses against the spot on your shoulder where his face is resting.  You turn your head to bury your nose in his hair, soft and smelling of generic shampoo, and you ride out the aftershocks together.

* * * * *

               You wake with the first light creeping in through the window, having slept lightly, unused to sharing your bed.  For a few minutes, you just lie there and stare at him, his fine features relaxed and angelic beneath a halo of ruffled brown hair.  A beautiful stranger, naked and snoring softly.  You stay and watch his chest rise and fall until your thirst and your bladder force you out of bed.  Then you get up quietly, careful not to wake him, and as you tiptoe into the bathroom, you discover that you’re sore all over.  Rather than bothering you, the stiff joints and achy muscles make you smile - a lasting reminder of the kind of sex you didn’t know you were missing until Sam showed you the light.

               You’re hunched over the stove in your phone booth of a kitchen, listening intently for just the right pitch of sizzle before you flip your batch of pancakes, when he pads up behind you and wraps his arms around your waist.  “I hope those are for me,” he says, nestling his chin down against your shoulder and looking into the pan. 

               “Actually they’re for one of my many other lovers,” you say with a grin before you pick up a spatula and flip over the pancakes, the done side golden and perfect.  “He’ll be here any minute. You can see yourself out, right?”

               He laughs and nuzzles your cheek, dotting your jaw with kisses.  “Thank you,” he says.  “You didn’t have to.”

               With his face this close to yours, and his chest pressed against your back, you briefly consider abandoning the pancakes and dragging Sam back to bed for a different kind of breakfast.  But he’s dressed like he’s ready to go, and the pancakes smell done anyway, and if he’s leaving town soon, you figure it’s probably best to just rip the band-aid off quickly and send him on his way.  You shoo him over to your tiny kitchen table and pour him a cup of coffee – black – before laying the platter of pancakes on the table and taking the seat across from him.  The conversation is friendly, but stilted, each of you uncomfortably aware of the imminent goodbye.  “So,” he starts, when his plate is clean and his mug is empty.

               You smile and hold up a hand.  “It’s okay, I know you have to go.”

               “I do,” he says, without a hint of the suave he demonstrated the night before, “but if I’m still in town in a few days, is it all right if I give you a call?” He looks up at you at that last bit, a hopeful smile spreading on his face.  It’s all the convincing you need (as if you needed any at all). You agree.

               That very night, when he finishes his shift at the coffee shop, he arrives at your doorstep with an overstuffed duffel bag and an oversized grin, and it’s a full six weeks before he leaves again.


End file.
